36. 36.
36.
C omfortable silences and conversation about things that shouldn’t have mattered, but meant a great deal to Folke to learn. Finlay preferred savoury over sweet. He wasn’t keen on idling, needing to keep himself busy. He had a large family: three sisters, two brothers. A great many aunts, uncles, and cousins. Nieces and nephews. Folke felt overwhelmed merely thinking about it, plagued by the knowledge that he would never have a place among them.
Then, long before he was ready, the car’s brool spluttered and its vibrating slowed. He swayed forward. Steadied himself with a hand on the dashboard, smooth but for the bevelled lines of the glove box.
As the door to his right opened and the racket flooded inside, he couldn’t keep disdain from twisting his face. The surly question of why people always had to be everywhere teetered at the precipice of his lips.
“Come on, fussbudget.” Finlay’s voice drifted away from him. The door snapped shut.
Folke wished more vehemently he’d never agreed to go. Startled, as his side was laid bare to the city and a hand nudged his shoulder. A signal he ought to move.
This was fine. He could conquer this, too.
All he had to do was swing his legs out.
He could do it.
“I can do it,” Folke croaked.
“I don’t doubt it,” Finlay said, disbelievingly. His voice drew nearer, “But I’m here, if you want the help.”
Folke clasped the hand grazing his shoulder. He didn’t need help, he was fine. Although it would be rude to reject the offer.
Bodily heaved out of the car and into a securing embrace, he pressed his mouth to Finlay’s neck, greedy for the comfort of its warmth. He glided his fingertips across wool lapels, to a shirt and a necktie. Leant back, capturing smoky exhales.
Finlay kissed him, briefly. A consoling peck. Asked, “Better? ”
“Yes.”
More or less.
An arm hooked around Folke’s, leading him away from the car’s safety. A sudden upsurge of panic rooted him to the ground, paved and rain-cold even beneath his boots.
“My crook,” he stammered.
“You didn’t bring it.”
His heart sank, free hand fiercely clutching the arm around his. Finlay was right. He’d not even thought about it until that moment.
How easily habits were washed away by the tutelary presence of his lovers.
Through gritted teeth, he uttered, “Don’t let go.”
“I wasn’t planning to.” Firm pats to his hand. “You should consider it though. You’re cutting off my blood supply.”
Folke forced himself to loosen his grip. To focus on the twanging of a barrel organ nearby. Its tune jubilant, nearly drowned out by the voices and laughter crashing all around him.
Unlike Brenin Bach where there had been an acceptable distance between him and everyone else, here the heat and scents of other bodies wafted by him as closely as bark clung to a tree.
Folke’s jaw hurt from clenching, already. His rib cage threatened to collapse under the thrashing of his heart. Too many. There were too many people, too many things. Too much noise.
“Two, please,” Finlay said.
Folke could find no curiosity to ask what he’d meant, distracted by all else. By the rumble of cars, clacking of shoes. Coins exchanging hands and odd popping noises. Echoes of hammering and men shouting. Something savoury teased his senses. He couldn’t place what, staggering along as Finlay continued to pull him forward.
Underfoot, pavement changed to stiff carpet, the air transformed from chilly damp to warm and dry. That same savoury aroma clung to it, almost nauseating. A woman nearby chided another for spilling something. Five pence, gone down the drain. The floor, rather. A meek apology suggested the recipient of such scolding was a young girl. Her daughter, perhaps.
Behind Folke, more voices and a heavy door, swishing shut. With prompting, he moved alongside Finlay, footfalls muffled. The atmosphere had grown muted, at least. They paused elsewhere, and again Finlay asked for two.
Guided to sit in a thinly upholstered chair, he clung to Finlay’s side. Chewed the inside of his cheek, fighting the need to request they leave. Someone had taken a seat beside him on his left, raising the hair on his body. Subtle notes of a florid perfume Folke didn’t entirely hate permeated his nostrils. He dreaded to think how close she must be for him to hear the shift of fabric.
“You’ve survived so far,” Finlay murmured into his ear.
“So far,” Folke repeated in a hiss, earning himself a humoured snort.
“Would it help if I told you that two good-looking women have taken an interest in you? ”
“Why on Earth would that help?”
He couldn’t fathom why anyone’s interest in him would matter when he wanted nothing to do with anyone. Especially not while on a date with his lover. A second date in a matter of a day. Folke knew suspiring with regret would be an ungracious thing to do, but it became increasingly difficult to withhold as music sprang up and yet those around him didn’t silence themselves.
“They’re showing the names of actors,” Finlay whispered around something in his mouth, reading out a few of the more amusing ones.
Something tapped against the back of Folke’s hands. A cardboard box, warm to the touch. Its contents rattled, some of it relinquished into his lap once he took hold of it.
“Popcorn,” he said, flatly, now recognising the surrounding shuffling and crunching noises for what they were. Why such loud food would be allowed inside a cinema was beyond him.
In that same whisper that had breath rushing over his right ear, Finlay read the film’s dedication. Its title meant nothing to Folke. It was only with the mention of a dog during the narrated introduction of the story that he perked up.
“Fluffy. Brown and white,” Finlay murmured when Folke asked about its coat. “Long snout. Only the tips of the ears are floppy.”
An adorable image. Longing for Needle’s company squeezed Folke’s heart, his fingers curling with the desire to run through her downy coat. She’d always given him such comfort.
“They don’t sound especially Scottish,” he muttered, listening to dialogue meant to enchant.
Another bout of stifled amusement. “The scenery doesn’t exactly resemble Scotland, either.”
Someone nearby shushed them. A heavy arm draped over Folke’s shoulders, followed by an audible, shocked gasp from that same someone.
He would’ve asked just what Finlay had done to offend, but his lover took to whispering again. Filling him in on details he would have otherwise missed. Prompted him to eat popcorn, going so far as to press the lightly salted flakes to his lips. Chased them with a kiss, now and again. Leaving Folke wanting for more, and the privacy of his cottage. Regrettably, whenever he moved in to cherish Finlay similarly, he was told to listen to the film.
It ended on a happy note, the dog safely returned to the young owner despite her arduous journey. A rather unrealistic portrayal of life. Folke would have mentioned exactly that when Finlay asked what he thought of it, but a prickling at the back of his mind instructed him not to. Told him that beneath the well-practised nonchalance, there lay a genuine desire for Folke to have enjoyed himself.
Others moved about, leaving. Their coats whipping, feet shuffling. He ran his tongue over his teeth, capturing lingering flavours of oil as he mulled on how best to respond.
“It was alright. ”
“You’re a fine example of British understatement.”
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. Tried again, “It wasn’t the worst.”
Folke pressed his lips together. Clearly, he’d learned nothing from his date with Darach.
“Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment. Let’s go,” Finlay continued, “I know you’re uncomfortable.”
Without meaning to, “Whatever gave you that idea?”
No response forthcoming. Folke was glad that at least his lover hadn’t taken so much offence as to leave him there on his own. Hands on his elbow and arm ensured his safe return to the car. It was a relief to shut all else out, to have it shiver beneath him and have his body swaying as they drove off. Back home, hopefully.
Still feeling frayed with the lingering notes of others trapped in his nose, the stifling silence between him and Finlay made loosening the rigidity of his spine impossible. Carrying on for so long, Folke inwardly fought for ways to break it. Wishing he knew how to backstep from the damage already caused with his thanklessness.
“What’s your problem with people?”
Folke startled at the question. Dove his hand under the vest to toy with plastic buttons in an attempt to stave off the inevitability of needing to answer.
“They’re noisy.” He knew he sounded petulant and hated it. “Crowds just. . .make me uneasy.”
“Obviously.” A pause. “Would this be an issue if I asked you to meet my family?”
In the midst of propping his elbow up on the window’s narrow ledge, Folke froze.
There was a significance within the question he couldn’t yet comprehend, let alone appreciate. His thoughts had come to an abrupt stop, and no amount of willing or wishing or inwardly screaming at himself could get them moving again.
Finlay wanted him to meet his family.
His parents, too?
“I got ahead of myself,” Finlay said, disheartened. “I don’t even get to see them that often. Forget I said anything.”
“But—”
“I shouldn’t have dragged you all the way out here. I knew you’d be uncomfortable but made you go anyway. It won’t happen again.”
Folke sat up from the defeated slump he’d fallen into. Panic pricked the back of his scalp. Tightened its grip around his heart. He uttered, “It’s fine. I’ll get used to it.”
“I’m not going to force you to be someone you’re not.”
“Please,” Folke urged, “don’t give up on me. I’m not accustomed to large crowds. I’ve never even been anywhere other than Brenin Bach. Maybe. . .maybe I can meet your family one at a time?”
Silence .
“Two at a time?”
More silence.
God, please say something.
“Fin?”
“You want to meet my family?”
Folke faltered.
Want was a strong word. The very notion terrified him, in particular their judgement of him. His fit for Finlay, a man so free-spoken and outgoing. His relatives were likely to be the same. Folke was out of his depths, but the idea of hurting Finlay made him more fretful than meeting an army of family members.
“I—I do,” he said with a slight crack in his voice. “I just need time to adjust.”
Desperately, he hoped that was true.
“It involves travel. Do you realise that?”
He hadn’t.
“Yes.” Only the slightest break in his response, this time.
“Hm. . .”
Finlay’s sudden hesitancy became nigh perceptible. If Folke were to reach out, he’d feel it as he would the fine droplets of a heavy fog.
“What did you really think of the film?”
Folke’s lips flattened into a line. Unsure whether he ought to be grateful for the change in subject. Truthfully, “It reminded me of things I’d rather forget.”
Like his mother, and how stern she could be. The times they had struggled to even feed themselves. Or Needle, whose wet nose he’d never again feel against his face.
The cruelty and selfishness of others.
“Really?” Finlay murmured, thoughtful. “It reminded me of resilience, both human and animal.”
How optimistic. Folke hadn’t believed him the sort.
“I like that better.” He eased his hand out from under the vest. The imprints of the button’s edges lingered on his fingertips. “Maybe next time, we can decide together which film we’ll go to.”
And Darach could be there.
Thomas too, he supposed.
“You want to go again?”
Folke settled his elbow by the window and rested his head in a cupped hand. “It’s not like I have any pastimes of my own I can take you along with. Unless you’re fond of shepherding sheep.”
It’d be ironic. A tempered wolf-skin among his sheep to help guard them.
He grunted with the abrupt slowing of the car, quaking over uneven ground. Was given not a single moment to ask why they had stopped, or to acknowledge the creak of leather under Finlay’s weight. His heat moved in. A firm hold rounded Folke’s neck and pulled him forward. Lips, no less forgiving, crashed against his with enough force to sting. For his breath to catch in the back of his throat and his hands to fly up to robust shoulders.
A tongue pushed in. Swept around his own. Despite his attempts to, he couldn’t keep pace with Finlay’s urgency, whose mouth left saliva to cool on his lips while traversing down his jawline. Harsh tugs at his necktie unravelled it, exposing his throat to teeth and sucks.
Folke gasped under the vehement attention. Pushed at those shoulders. Asked, “What’s going on?”
Not that he didn’t appreciate it. Regretted speaking up, as a palm had slid down to the clasp of his trousers. Now leaving. Although Finlay didn’t pull away. Kissed him again. Slower, but no less intensely.
Then he growled, “I never even thought to hope for someone like you.”
“Like me what?” Folke struggled to keep up, the haze of lust beclouding his thoughts.
Their foreheads connected. A warm touch to help ground him, yet the admixture of smoke and popcorn brushing over Folke’s nose with each unsteady breath was too intoxicating.
“I fucking adore you.”
Ardent words spinning like a fallen leaf inside Folke’s head, dizzy. He tilted back against the window and narrowed his focus into the coolness of its glass. The sound of delicate rain pattering across metal. Another car, barreling past. His heart, battering his insides.
It wasn’t quite a confession of love, but as close as one he would ever get from a man such as Finlay. That he’d gotten even that much left him reeling.
And it was an unfathomable amount.
“I—” He wanted to respond in kind.
Struggled.
“It’s alright, sweetheart.” Finlay murmured, reassuring. Said again, “It’s alright.”
Knuckles brushed across his cheek. A consoling touch, the press of lips more so. Body heat retreated, leather creaking further as Finlay settled back. The engine rumbled, and Folke rocked with the forward motion. Still addlepated, still breathless, and still unable to muster a response.
Yet he opened his mouth—
“It’s alright.”
Closed it again.
Longed to say he felt the same way—as much as his cautious heart allowed.